The Unemployment Follies #8 - Will the Kurds Get Their Whey?

[The following takes place between the last time I wrote and today.]

Good morning, good afternoon and good evening, dear readers.  It's great to be here today. In fact, it's great to be anywhere.

MUSIC APPRECIATION

Many years ago, when I still flew, I went to Los Angeles on vacation. I visited a lefty guitar store, one of the main ones at that time.  It was truly Disneyland for me.  A store where almost every guitar was a lefty.  He had one of everything.  The one that really rung my bell was a 1958 lefty Stratocaster.  It was like heaven made from wood in my hands.  It was so magical that it almost played itself.  It was only twelve grand or so, just a hair out of my budget.

Hidden away in the back room was a treasure: a 1960 lefty Les Paul standard.  There were only three ever made.  McCartney had one, someone in another country had the second and I got to hold and play the third.  It was a decent guitar at a decent price - only $95,000.  I was a little disappointed, mentioning to the store owner that it only played like a $35,000 guitar.  Price aside, it was not for me.

Yesterday I opened an issue of Vintage Guitar magazine and discovered that one of these Les Pauls just sold at auction, for the bargain price of $194,000.  Don't I feel stupid for not picking the guitar up when it was under a hundred grand...

THE CONTINUING SEARCH OF BUNGALOW LEFTY

To no one's surprise, I am still without a job.  Of course the title probably clued everybody in anway. Let's emphasize the positive and state that when I get a job, I'll have to go back to writing... well... whatever it is that I used to write before the hammer fell. And you'll have to read it, so let's just give thanks where we can.

You were probably wondering what sorts of interesting job search results have appeared.  Let me ease your burden and list some of them:

• Visual Impairment Service Team Coordinator [VIST Team - FREEZE!]
• Customer Destruction Specialist [now here's one we can all get behind]
• Concierge-Event Planning [because I love people and hospitality]
• Java Developer [I'm more of a java consumer]
• Tumor Registrar [a room for how many organs, sir?]
• Freelance Sports Photographer [because I love sports and can't take a picture with an idiot-proof camera]
• Geospatial Technician [huh?]

I had an incredible interview the other day.... it was an intensive security position with a very large company. Everything looked good, I liked the job description and they seemed to like me. Then BOOM - the anchor dropped.  The job required over fifty percent travel.  I don't know about you but two months in beautiful downtown Utah just doesn't make my nipples swell.

I have spent a whole lot of time consuming job interviewing tips from all over the place. I can safely say that I know what not to do and even a bit of what TO do.  The key to a good interview is to anticipate the questions and have answers ready, in addition to examples. During a phone conversation, it should go something like this:

Tell me about yourself.  Hi, my name is lefty and I make people nervous.

What is your ideal day on the job?  Thanks for asking. I'd start with an intensive review of the evening's security events, followed by some chocolate, pizza and then the strippers. I'd close with some oral.

Wait - I need to put you on hold - my wife is flashing me.

Where do you see yourself in five years?  Certainly not in this dump. I intend to avail myself of all the benefits and run like the wind. With any luck, I'll be able to blame it all on the boss.

You were laid off?  Why?  I'm glad you chose to ask this highly illegal question.  My position was eliminated, right after I eliminated the CIO and half of the board.  Just because I soiled his wife was no reason to be so upset. Yes, that was a chainsaw, but I couldn't have done it because I could never start the damn thing.

How do you keep current with security news?  Websites, news readers and Juggs magazine.

With preparation like this, it's amazing that I don't have multiple job offers.

IT'S OK, I'M INDEPENDENTLY WEALTHY

Remember the well-meaning neighbor?  The one who asked when our house was going up for sheriff's sale?  We're finally one-up on him: we called the mortgage company and, as it turns out, they're not all that keen on calling the sheriff.  The best moment was when we were going over our finances, Lieutenant Mortgage came to the conclusion that without our mortgage payment, we were four dollars in the hole.  Suffice it to say, they're quite content to work with us.  This works out well, as I can't rely upon public wifi to write these sagas.

NOT QUITE ERRATA

I passed the dog on my way in.  He had his face buried in something of weird color.  Then I got distracted by the neighbor washing her car in those shorts and.... 

Ok, so I passed the dog on the way in. When I got back to him, he was finishing up someting.  Minimal detective work indicated that he had bored through a pizza box to get at the poisoned pizza that he stole from the trash.  He has a cast iron stomach, largely from eating cast iron.

Speaking of trash, I mentioned our new automatic trash can.  Wave my hand over it and it opens, then closes on its own.  Apparently it needs a tuneup because it tends to open and close for no apparent reason.  Every night we sit in the living room and hear the can opening and closing.  It's almost a form of cheap entertainment these days (as everyone knows, I'm a cheap and easy date. Mostly easy).

Last but not least, I need to unburden myself.  This is just between us, ok? I don't want the wife to find out.  You see, it's about the wife. For some reason, perhaps due to all that loud music when she was little, her hearing has gone to hell.  I didn't want to be the one to tell her that she answers her cell phone in speakerphone mode, then puts it to her ear.  Mostly she puts the phone down and talks to it REALLY LOUDLY. I keep telling her she's shouting. She keeps telling me she's sorry, then goes back to shouting at the phone again. It's getting so I can't hear the tv or watch porn on my laptop.

I feel much better now - thank you.

The Unemployment Follies (#7) - Dusty White Shirts

[In this post, our hero has amazing difficulty in the act of becoming employed, in spite of major effort.]

COMING OUT OF THE CLOSET

The bedroom closet is a bit shallow but extremely wide.  I'd estimate that it could sleep two people, foot to foot.  Four people foot to foot and breast to breast; twenty-four people if you slice them correctly.  How, you ask, does this relate to employment?  By a damn fine thread, as most of my output tends to go.

When interviewing, I discovered it is strongly advised not to wear Hawaiian shirts.  A wag suggested I flout the system and wear Hawaiian underwear but the jury is still out on that.  After paying an absolutely frightening amount for a new dress shirt in the wrong size, the wife came up with about seven of them in the correct size. From the closet, of course.  I'm beginning to think that this closet occupies several more dimensions than we know of, as stuff seems to appear and disappear when searching.  It probably also does this when we're not searching, but I'll leave this to the quantum mechanics to work out (Shroedinger's shirt?).  Speaking of quantum effects, most everything in the closet has dust on it but only the very top.

So there are seven additional shirts in the correct size. This indicates that at some point, it was possible to purchase shirts off the shelf in the correct size.  Just not anymore, plus they're a lot more expensive.  Ain't progress grand?  I'm not good at math (or history or science or databases) but I'm going to say that these business shirts in the correct size look incredible for what must be sixteen years old.  No, really, they look every bit as good as the hideously expensive new shirt, including one that's almost the same shirt.

Speaking of Hawaiian shirts, I have a strange fondness for them.  Because of their dusty-topped condition, the wife decided to wash them.  As it turns out, I have rather a lot of them.  Really rather a lot of them.  The beauty of Hawaiian shirts (or most things) is that if you hold onto them long enough, they'll be back in style in a few years.  I don't want to say my shirts are old but they have come and gone out of style four times.

THE JOB SEARCH

One of my mentors suggested I arrange the Hawaiian shirts very close to the middle of the closet and the business shirts at the far unused end.  This way the Universe knows I need a job in which Hawaiian shirts are just fine and business shirts are laughed at.  So the Hawaiian shirts are just to the right of center, because if I cross the center line, my wife will bite me in a very sensitive place (and not in a good way).

Having located the jacket, with dust only on the top, I am now officially ready to go on interviews.  That is, if there were any.  According to the ads, there are many jobs available... just not for me, apparently.

The recruiters are driving me up a tree.  The metric tonne of Indian recruiters have called about very old jobs and want to submit me for them regardless of skills or location.  Last week I got calls about jobs in Colorado and Wyoming.  One job search turned up a result for restroom attendant (don't laugh - I applied).  Ok, maybe not.  The local recruiters are a different species altogether.  They call, spend some quality time with me, sound incredibly interested, all but promise me a job and then I never hear from then again.  I suspect these folks are recent graduates from local used car lots.  I don't want to tar all recruiters with the same slime - one of them has actually called me back.

I did find a government job.  I couldn't understand the job title or description, so I figured I'd be perfect for it and applied.

I am going to depart from this blog's entertainment and sarcasm focus to mention that this whole thing is downright depressing.


SUPPORTING THE AUTOMOTIVE REPAIR AND RENTAL INDUSTRIES

No post to this blog would be complete without some new and exciting information about the car.  The collision repair place for the insurer called to tell us the car was ready.  When we got there, we discovered that there was yet another five-hundred-dollar deductible.  This topic has actually gone to the realm of logic: how can an unemployed guy make five-hundred-dollars appear out of thin air?  You might be surprised to learn that my piles of hundreds have been depleted by unemployment and tithing to Dunkin Donuts for the dog's coffee.  And even if I had hundreds in the closet, they'd be dusty up top.

Not being independently wealthy has been complicated by another ironic phone call, this time from the insurance company.  It seems we are just about to exceed the number of rental car days for the year.  I've never even heard of this happening.  So every day that passes is another day we have to pay for our rental.

Causing five-hundred-dollars to appear is no small feat.  Do they expect me to pull it out of my buttocks?  Let's face it - if I could, as my friend pointed out, I wouldn't need a job.  Perhaps I'm just a masochist.

The entire process of getting the car repaired this time has been one of frustration.  I suppose it's ironic that this is the only time the person who hit us had insurance.  There was a huge amount of confusion over whose insurance was going to cover it and if theirs was, why were we paying a deductible.  After weeks and many phone calls, the repair place overruled the insurer and our insurance is covering it.  The lady in charge of the process possesses all the grace and charm of Genghis Khan.

Off we went to pick up our baby.  The wife got back into the rental and just looked at me.  What now? An additional part had to be repaired and the car, which was 'ready' the prior day, would take another hour or three.  And we're racing the clock on the rental.

Know what?  I have to give major points to Hyundai.  As you've undoubtedly read, we have driven a lot of rental cars lately (stop laughing) and my wife still prefers her Hyundai.  There are definitely features on the other cars that surpass ours (seats, stereo, handling) but the Hyundai is still the better car (or close) overall.  The current rental is from a country known for its meatballs.  We have this car because the choice was between it and a Mini Cooper.  It hurts me to even look at a Mini Cooper; my eyes feel cramped and unprotected.  I have never priced the Meatballmobile but I understand they're fairly expensive.  And after driving it for a few weeks, I'm not impressed.  It's bumpy as hell.  Yes, the power seats have presets and lower back support and the engine has balls BUT that doesn't justify its premium over the Hyundai.


WHAT IS LIVING IN THE KITCHEN

We have an issue with trashcans in our house.  By this I mean we have a Dog Issue.  He loves trash, among other things.  After the little monster kept getting into the trashcans, we bought the cans with the lids that you have to lift.  This kept the dog out for all of two weeks.  Between his innate intelligence and my wife's failure to put the lid back, he was back into things immediately.  Failing that, he just knocked the thing over and took what he wanted.

I have no idea whose idea this is or where it was found but we have a new trashcan.  This one is an automatic can, where you wave your hand over it and the lid opens by itself.  Then closes by itself.  Until the dog figures this one out, it's a perfect solution, plus it's pretty neato for the people.

The other night, we heard a weird noise in the kitchen.  Then the dog started barking in its general direction.  My parents would say we had ghosts - I'm skeptical.  It turned out to be the can, opening and closing by itself.  If the dog hadn't barked, I'd swear he just figured out how to operate it.

Bright as he is, he sometimes fails to notice his mortal enemy, the mailman, coming up the drive but the moment you put your coffee cup on the table, he starts barking like a rabid animal and circling the door.  I yell between hysterical barks and he somehow manages to completely ignore me.  If ignoring me weren't a regular occurance with everyone in the house, I'd be upset.

The Unemployment Follies (#6) - Lefty's Flying CIrcus

Yes, it's another installment of the Unemployment Follies, starring the leftystrat household; the wives, the pets and me.  Judging by the title, you know I'm still without serious employment (or even non-serious employment).

SINKING?

How are things, you ask?
Things are, by and large, still things, only shrunk down by fifty percent. It getting time to call some creditors.  Do you think I can explain to them that since my income dropped by fifty percent, my payments will drop accordingly?

Perception is everything, though.
To anybody looking in, I must look like I'm on some pretty heavy drugs. I spend every day looking for jobs for a few hours, then do some housework (while my wife holds me at gunpoint).  But I'm surprisingly calm.

Of course, I'm probably the only one who's calm. The wife is absolutely Not Impressed with my state of Not Working.  She (et.al.) is in a state of PTSD-induced unrest.  She keeps me on the straight and narrow, memorizing my phone and in-person interviews and asking me if they're still happening.  While the dog is still loving having me home, the wife is definitely not.  Since I have been home, she has taken up a new hobby: laundry.  Nobody knows why but a girl has to have her recreation time.  I tired telling her that it's not necessary to wash clothes every day but there's no dissuading her.  I was kinda hoping she would take up nymphomania but things don't always work out the way one would like.

The neighbor who asked if the house will be going up for sheriff's sale has been really nice, bringing over stuff from the garden.  The other neighbor has been leaving care packages.  For some reason, they include a lot of bread.  Fortunately the dog loves bread, as if we could keep him out of it.  My mom just made us dinner.  We're not destitute by any means but I feel rich in friends and family (ok, and slightly embarrassed).  I even took down the NOT STARVING sign on the house.

AUTO-MOBILE

I'm not exactly certain which neighbors know what but the reactions are priceless. The lady across the street came over to congratulate my wife on the new car.  My wife had to tell her it was a rental.  The good neighbor took one look at the rental car and said, "Oh dear... not again!"  Several other neighbors no doubt think we own a car lot (or are drug dealers).

I have come up with a solution for our next car.  The first part is to NOT LET HER DRIVE.  The other part is to purchase the car and three entire sets of bodies (to be stored at the body shop).  This way, when people hit us (and they WILL hit us), all we have to do is drop the car at the shop and have them replace the body part(s) from our existing inventory.  We won't even have to call the insurance company (at least until we're through the three entire sets of bodies).

Speaking of accidents, my dear wife finally realized that she has a sprained knee and opposite ankle.  This is somewhat compounded by both of her feet swelling like clown feet.  The neighborhood children want to use them for pool floats.  In fact, she's sitting next to me as I type this, blissfully unaware of the content.  Swelling feet are going to look minor in comparison with what she's going to do to me.

Speaking of doing things to me, I have to do my part to help by wrapping ace bandages around her ankles.  Here we are, with this perfect deviant sexual aid, and we're using it for health reasons. Again, I am embarrassed.


WHAT DO YOU DO ALL DAY?

So when I'm not job-hunting, doing housework at gunpoint or wrapping my wife's ankles for health reasons, there is always TV.  I prefer internet tv, as there's almost always something I want to watch. My wife, on the other hand, lives on broadcast tv. You know, old style, plug in the rabbit ears, horrible reception television.  What makes this really horrible is that she likes to watch ancient black and white movies (from just after they added sound) and really old, horrible sitcoms from before we were born. Leave it to Beaver, anyone?

The absolute worst time of the day is during the day, when all the court shows are on. Judge Lynn, Judge Stanislaus, and the most repugnant (and famous) show of all, Judge Judy.  I am convinced that we can eliminate the national debt by selling tickets to have a whack at Judge Judy with a two-by-four (with a railroad spike in it).  There's Divorce Count, People's Court and Banana Nut Bread Court. After being an involuntary spectator in all of these courtrooms, I figure there's really only one court we need: Grammar Court.  Have you heard how these people speak?

With any tv, you get the absolute best part - commercials.  There is a current commercial for a digital tv antenna that boasts tremendous reception and no cable costs.  For those of us with a functional brain, this is a rabbit-ears equivalent that's being sold as a small miracle.

I also discovered that with a certain cable service, one can DVR up to fifteen programs at once.  This is stunning news, that must be reported at once to either Guiness World Records or your local exterminator.  The first thing that occurs to me is why you need to record up to fifteen programs at once when you can barely find one program that's even halfway decent at any time.

Then there's the sue Sue SUE attorney ads.  No matter what the ailment, they can get you MONEY. And they can do it NOW!  Their close cousins are the drug ads.  If you have suffered from a sore groin, hypertension or death, please call 1-800-SUE-YOU2.

Huh? If you have suffered from death, please call?  Dunno about you, but I'd love to be there to watch that phone call.

Today we got an extremely rare treat.. we got to watch CHIPS on the Antedeluvian Channel.  I never saw the show when it came out but I was aware of it and the fact that it was a joke.  Today I found out precisely why it was a joke.  Absolutely the worst acting, writing and shooting job I have ever seen.  You know things are bad when you find yourself longing for the clarity, wit, and fashion sense of The Fresh Prince of BelAir.

We watched stuff like that?
CHIPS was bloody huge in its day (tell them, Eric).

Also amusing were the wacky antics of the police in ADAM-12.  This museum-view of the police took place when people used dial phones and before police started randomly beating people, shooting dogs, and breaking into apartments, shooting babies, then discovering they had the wrong house.  They used antiquated phrases like 'Yes Sir', 'Yes Ma'am' and 'You get it, Pete.'  There was something odd about police in California arresting lowlifes with southern accents.


THE JOB

So how goes the job hunt?
Apparently pretty poorly, judging from the title of this post.  I hope I'm still going to be amusing when I get a new job.

Since I last wrote, I've been approached for jobs in Arkansas, New York, New Jersey and possibly Saudi Arabia (relocation costs covered!).  When travel time is over an hour, the job stops being local.

I'm told this is the time for information security people.  You'd think that the recent breaches at Target, Home Depot and (horrors!) Dairy Queen would indicate the need for security professionals.  One recruiter told me all the security people are employed (except for this one, obviously).

But I'm online, on phone and on the toilet a lot.  Things are opening up (so to speak).  I'm even in a pilot program from the state to help the unemployed find jobs.  The last time I went to the pilot program, the doors were all locked.  I suspect the pilot crashed.  It does make me wonder why I was specially chosen.  Is it because I'm the first ex-Jew they have ever seen?  Maybe it's because my dog is black.

The Unemployment Follies (#5)

Well, it's been a real whirlwind since I last wrote.  And when I say a whirlwind, I mean that much effort has been put forth for absolutely nothing of any consequence in terms of gain.  Oh sure, I've been solicited for jobs halfway across the state, in the next state over, the state on the other side, up north of the next state over; for security guard, software engineer, governance manager (?), relationship director, project manager, and of course, my monthly offer for insurance sales.

I even had a call from a recruiter who was excited about a position, wanted to send my resume and references right over, set up a lunch for us, and never called back or responded to emails.  I specifically avoided references to his mother or family members and farm animals, as I'm told this could be considered offensive by some people.

As I type this, I just discovered that my Linked-In picture was taken down for violation of their terms. When you consider that the picture is of my pets, I fail to get this alleged violation.  Let's face it, a large number of Linked-In pictures are not pictures of the account owner.

HOUSE

My wife has gone on a house cleaning spree. This came as a shock to both of us, causing me to join her.   We've taken untold amounts of bags to the curb, freeing untold amounts of space inside the house. I even discovered there is carpet next to my bed.  While I will cop to being a slob, I'm not claiming responsibility for this, instead preferring to blame it on the dog.  I tidied and arranged all reading material on the side of the bed. The dog proceeded to untidy every single page, in addition to tearing the trash apart on a nightly basis.  After two or three times, I gave up and let him rearrange things to his liking.  Even after we got a flip-top trash can, he still goes there first, every single evening, to see if there is any more tasty trash that needs to be shredded (all over the bed).

With all of this wonderful new-found space, the items in my house are having a difficult time adjusting.  In fact, they're having such a difficult time, they're acting out.  I just watched my wife carry some wash downstairs and a vacuum randomly put itself in her way and got knocked over as a result.  Whenver I reach for something on a clean table, something else falls off.  It's only a matter of time until things start leaping about the house on their own.  One guest swore a cup hurled itself at her.  She was probably correct.


CAR

You know what's coming, right?

It's been quite a few weeks.

Our insurer has missed us.

Yes, someone hit the car. Again.  In fact, I stopped counting a while ago.  Guitar players can't count past four anyway (and I know my limitations.. 1-2-3-4!).  I can only estimate and I refuse to estimate, as it would make me sad(der).  We didn't even report the last time it happened.

This time, some idiot stopped short, caused my wife to stop short, causing the brand new black Mercedes behind her to slam right into her. He tried to avoid the car, managing to only ruin one rear corner of the Target Hyundai.  This being Philthydelphia, they had to wait two hours for the police. I suppose she was lucky, as the Philthy cops don't usually respond to anything that doesn't involve a gun. Did I mention that the idiot who caused the accident drove away?

This morning I am yanked out of bed at some horrid hour (before noon) because someone's coming over.  Why should I care?  Because something happened and the bank account needs money or we won't be able to pick up a rental car.  So someone's coming over with money, bless them.

I am horrified.

I got into the car for the first time, post-accident, this morning.  As we're driving down the street, I hear a really bad rubbing of some sort.  Turning to the wife with that look, she explained that she told me about this.

Huh?

Yeah, it's ok.

Huh?  The horrible rubbing noise is ok?

Yeah, the guy(?) said it was ok.

What guy?

The guy from the accident.

Ah.

So I'm driving, my heart (and wallet) pounding due to the rubbing noise (that's ok). When we parked, I took a look for the root of the rubbing.  No problem, I said... it's only the broken, very hot exhaust pipe, sitting against a rear tire.  No, it's ok.

Is your skull coming apart at the seams yet?  Mine is.

Finally we managed to obtain a rental car.  It's a lot nicer than our car, even if we're just talking about the extreme lack of dents and parts hanging off it.  Since it's black, the polar opposite of white, our luck will be much better with this one.  And I say this because the last rental we got when the last bit of body work had to be done after the last accident, had to have its mirror replaced after someone hit that.  The cost of the Mirror Operation exceeded the amount I paid for each of my first three cars.

Following the wife to the dealer, I pulled in behind her. This was made more difficult by the random parking arrangements of the existing cars.  But all of this was no matter, as this was the wrong location. The correct body shop location was a few blocks down the road (it's all the same dealership).

After locating the correct body shop, we somehow managed to park (this place had the same Parking IQ as the last one).   Some lady, with an 'I just sucked on a lemon' look, came past me and drove our car to the garages.   A few minutes later my wife comes up to me and says we may have to cancel the entire operation, as they won't look at the car for a few weeks if it's driveable.  I point out that it's not driveable, given the rubbing (that's ok).  Lemon Face brought a mechanic out, pointing out the correct area of damage (differentiating it from the other areas of damage).  Mechanic agree with me.  As it turned out, the rubbing noise (that's ok) turned out to be not ok.

Wife explained that Lemon Face was agitated and didn't want to admit the car for repair. Regardless, the repair would take two to three weeks.  For some reason, business is good for the humongous dealer's body shop (with twenty bays or more).  And I thought it was just us....


GIMPY

I casually asked my wife why her walking was worse than normal.  She casually answered that her knee had been bothering her since the accident.

DING!

I didn't want to overstep my boundaries or appear parental but I suggested that she stop cleaning for a few moments and if her knee hurt, maybe, perhaps, she should get it looked at professionally.

I didn't want to bother you.

DING!



I want my wife back.

And my car.

And my typing, which has gotten extremely dyslexic lately.


Meanwhile, the dealer, body shop, car rental place and insurance person all know us on a first-name basis.

The Unemployment Files (#4)

Greetings, friends and neighbors, fellow bloggers, readers, and everyone here from the Wide World of Water Sports.  This is the next in the Unemployment series, otherwise known as Episode 4 (or Why Am I Still Typing This Shit?).

As you know by now, I remain without work, unless you count the constant drone of the wife, barking out orders for me to do menial tasks like carrying stuff, cleaning stuff and mowing. I'm a knowledge worker - this kinda stuff is beneath me.

SEARCHING

You have been privy to all of the interesting search results I've gotten as well as all of the lovely recruiters who have called and emailed.  This installment's Best Of would have to include the offers for work in Houston, New York, four counties over, and of course, the three month consulting arrangement in Arkansas.  Come to Arkansas, work three months is their new state slogan.

A friend suggested a new game: collect all the coins for the states for which we're invited to work. The one with the most coins wins.  No, I don't know what.

In my own searches online, I have come across a few winners also. Business to Business insurance sales, wound nurse and my absolute favorite: lactation consultant.  I have to tell you that the last one had me considering a career change.  I'm somewhat of a subject matter expert in that general area anyway, going pro wouldn't be that difficult.  I can already properly size a bra and check for lumps, so I know wherefrom I speak.  Ok, I am a bit lacking in lactation - it's simply a fetish better left for others.

THE HIRSUTE CANINE CHILD

The dog has been enjoying the hell out of having me home full time, according to my wife.  As I type this, he's sitting next to me, putting his nose under my arm and insisting on all attention being provided to him and him alone.  Unfortunately all the attention has spawned more of a little monster... when we go somewhere, he becomes Spaniel Detective and hunts down anything edible, no matter where it is.  He used to be such a good dog when we left.  Last week he got half a bag of my Reese's Pieces (the bastard).  This was doubly evil, as my wife was supposed to get me Peanut Butter M&Ms, not Reese's Pieces.

He's defintely acting out.  Yesterday he ate half a loaf of wheat bread... the kind with all that sawdust on the top.  Wheat bread.  No matter how bad chocolate is for dogs, he will consume whatever he can reach.  Fortunately it doesn't bother him (it bothers me though).  My wife, who is sometimes forgetful (like it's sometimes humid in PA), left a whole bag of trail mix on the floor.  Strangely, the dog has left it there.  Yes, we've finally found the single substance that the dog won't touch. Remember - this is the guy who has eaten raw brussels sprouts.  Just not trail mix, please, Dad.

Meanwhile, the cat is also enjoying more attention.  The fastest way to get one of them to come is to call the other one.  Sibling rivalry at its finest.

Speaking of the cat, he has developed a new talent.  If you remember, the dog has trained the (good) neighbor to come out and feed him upon his command (bark).  The cat, no slouch himself, saw what was going on and figured he needed to get in on the action. So he, the cat who makes no noise at all, now sits on the fence and goes meow...Meow... MEOW and the neighbor comes out and feeds him too. We have unleashed two beggars upon the neighbor.


THANKS FOR THE HELP

The neighbor with the good intentions, who last time asked if the house was going up for sheriff's sale had another piece of wisdom the other day.  He saw my wife smoking on the front step and lectured that she must stop smoking; it's costing us too much money.  Of course the guy is one hundred percent correct; he's just lucky he didn't get a Subaru through his thorax.  The wife is a little jumpy where ciggies are concerned.

Armed with this great information, my wife decided to save us some money on cigarettes.  Whenever I hear 'save us money', I start to shake.  This usually means that she has purchased two of something 'because it was on sale' or 'because it was cheaper'.  When she gets home, she tells me how much money she has saved us.  I volunteer to save us even more money.... Guitar Center is having a sale and I can get two guitars for just a bit more than one.  Think of the hundreds I can save us!  Oddly enough, it is at that exact point that her math fails her (as well as her sense of humor).

Where was I?  Oh yeah, cigarettes.  She saved us loads of money by buying.... are you ready?  can you guess?  wait for it...  Roll Your Own cigarette parts.  We now have a tray table dedicated entirely to assembling cigarettes. Or rather, a tray table dedicated entirely to holding all the paraphernalia required to assmeble cigarettes.  I figure this is a practice best done when she has enough ciggies already. The moment she's out, she'll run shaking to the tray table, try putting together a single cancer stick, fail miserably, and run screaming to the store to buy a carton of regular old cigarettes (for $77 plus taxes).  In fact, it turns out that the tobacco companies are the ones that started the Roll Your Own movement.

INTERVIEWS - WE GOT INTERVIEWS

Hey, I haven't spent the entire week sitting on my ass.  I've spent the entire week looking for jobs, while sitting on my ass, thank you very much.  I have to admit I've had a decent amout of 'hits' on my resume lately, some from actual caucasians (who aren't Indian and trying to pound me into any job they can fit me into).

The prospective employers are getting smart about things, as I mentioned, and doing phone interviews (screenings) to weed out the bad prospects before calling them in physically (if not mentally).  I have had a bunch of phoners, as I call them.  Each one teaches me something, namely that I hate interviewing and that I can learn from my mistakes. And I make rather a lot of them.  And I insist upon making each one of them repeatedly.  Getting feedback helps to learn what to do next time.

So I've learned a lot, largely by failing.  Some call it Trial and Error.  I call it Error and Error.

This week I got a call from a recruiter for a job that turned out to be pretty damn local.  If there's anything I like (besides not having to mow the lawn), it's a very short commute to work. So I sat on the phone with the recruiter, very patiently, and answered questions. Very early in the process it became apparent that the technical recruiter had absolutely no concept of technical matters.  It would only make sense, you know.  I was charming and helped with technical acronyms.  Having gotten through that, I was informed that there was another phoner with their actual technical person.

A few days later, their actual technical person called, only he wasn't entirely technical either; he just knew all of the terms and acronyms. I suspect I was less charming this time but I passed muster. I know this because I was then invited to meet him in person.  In a small county, one state over. Tomorrow, if I didn't mind. For anybody keeping score, this was two phoners and an in-person, just to get past the recruiter.  The visit was pleasant, he asked great questions, we all talked about pets, kids and the coffee situation brewing (get it?) in South America, causing prices to rise exponentially.  I must have been in good form because I passed muster again.

How did I know I passed muster again? The recruiter was going to pass my resume along to his client. IF the client likes my resume, there will be... hang on..... guess what?  a PHONER!  If he likes the phoner, an in-person will be scheduled.  For anybody still keeping score, I will have gone through three phoners and two in-persons before I know if I got the job or not.  And this is for a consultant slot.  This has city government or extreme corporate obfuscation written all over it. I hope they don't take measurements when I show up. I typically disappoint.

Then there was the other phoner/screener for a large retailer.  It was being gang-interviewed, possibly by monkeys, judging from the zoo-like background noise.  It felt like home because I used to work in a zoo.  Well, not a traditional zoo, but they were really loud and sometimes smelled like animals. The secretary's husband likened calling there to a soccer riot.

And there we are - this week's installment.  Although it would break my heart, I am perfectly willing to discontinue this series and get back to the (ab)normal stuff.

The Unemployment Follies (#3)

It's been a little while since the last update, largely because nothing funny has happened.  Well, when I say nothing funny has happened, I mean the normal funny stuff has continued.

When you're under-employed, it is said that your job becomes working toward being employed. It's a full time job.  Sometimes after chasing the Golden Paycheck down all day, I don't notice it's dinner time and I begin to wonder whether I've time warped or all that time flew by (when you're having fun).

The bizarre calls and emails continue to pour in. Job possibilities in all sorts of places, very few of which are in my state or commutable.  I try my best to be nice to the recruiters, even though being nice isn't one of my strong points. I reply politely that California is thousands of miles away, which puts it just outside of my range for driving (or flying).  One company has called me three times about the same job, only they can't seem to figure out if it's in north Delaware or south Delaware (not that it matters, as I'm not driving to either of the Delawares).  And everybody knows that you lose one IQ point for every mile below Wilmington, Delaware (ducking).

When I specify that I'm in security, why do you send me emails seeking an email administrator? Or a network administrator?  Or a database administrator.  Or a drive halfway across the state?

Searching for jobs is amusing in itself because when one searches for Security jobs, one gets mostly results for security guards.  It must be an interesting and exciting field, as there are so many ads, each one listing an hourly rate below nine dollars.  Hmm... I wonder if you get a gun...  One of my searches was at a research hospital and came up with Chief Monkey Handler.  Surprisingly enough, I did not jump at the opportunity (I live with enough animals as it is).


DAYTIME

So I'm home during the day, which delights the wife (and the dog). The only problem here, besides not having a job, is daytime television.  We don't have cable tv, so we're kinda limited to broadcast tv.  Have you seen broadcast tv lately?  Will the last broadcaster turn the lights out before you leave? This is what a friend of mine used to call dog-meat television.  Yes, I love my wife, but some of the stuff she watches makes me wish I were working, so I never knew about it.

There is a show called Wendy that comes on after the morning news (which is more concerned with Facebook than actual news).  I'll try to be polite here (but will ultimately fail): the woman is about seven feet tall (plus wig and heels) and may in fact be a man.  They say the transvestites always have better makeup and clothes because this is their area of expertise and they have to work harder.  So she's tall and has a giant set of mammalian protuberances.  She hoots and hollers, at which point the audience hoots and hollers.  I knew this because my wife likes to listen to the tv at earth-shattering volumes, making it difficult to concentrate on more important things (like poking my eardrums out with a pencil).

This is considered a talk show, for lack of better term.  When guests sit on the couch, the staff fires up the Shoe-Cam and they show the guest's shoes.  This is the kind of show it is.  And now you're ready to poke your own eyes out with a pencil.

If you can imagine it, the only thing more obscene than the alleged programming is the commercials. During the day, there are two types of commercials: SUE SUE SUE, the lawyer commercials and GET MONEY NOW commercials.  It makes your head explode.  It also makes me wonder who the audience is because this stuff is targeted to them.


SHOPPING?

I got another call from a recruiter who didn't seem anywhere near as slimy as the rest of them. The job sounded interesting, the commute reasonable and if they liked my resume, the interview was going to be the next day.

The next day?

This presented a small problem:  I was with my previous employer for about fifteen years, meaning that the last time I wore a suit was about fifteen years ago.  Oddly enough, I still have the suit but I suspect, fashion maven that I am, that it may look a bit out of date. So I was brutally honest with the recruiter, who said just wear something business appropriate.  I lied and told him I had clothes that fit the description.

Let me be honest with you too: when I say I'm a t-shirt and jeans kinda guy, I'm not kidding.  I have more t-shirts than most people have hair.  And some sneakers - that's it.  I don't dress up for anything or anyone, past a nice Hawaiian shirt.  They're lucky to have me at events in the first place so nobody complains about my clothes.

So it became time to go shopping.  I instantly knew I was going to regret this but it had to be done.  As it couldn't be done without the wife, I had to jump up and down upon the bed (it was daytime and she seems to sleep about twelve hours off my schedule, if at all).  We were on the road by 6:30 (I started waking her at 3:30) and off to the local mall.  The local mall has been undergoing changes for some time.  A lot of the really interesting stores have closed, making way for cell phone shops and more women's shoe stores.

We went into JC Penneys, which was wonderfully devoid of patrons.  My wife instantly went into BUY MODE, looking at the clothes and handbags and shoes and trinkets and clothes as if she hadn't been shopping in years.  I had to keep reminding her that one of us was still unemployed so it wasn't a particularly good idea to buy that eighty dollar dress (or that five dollar trinket - she doesn't care). Eventually it hit me, bright observant guy that I am, that this store was not divided by men's and women's - it was divided by designer.  Again, I don't get out much but it seemed ridiculous because you have to walk around the entire store if you're comparison shopping for any clothing at all.  Perhaps this is the idea but it seems like a lot of wasted time and effort to me.  My wife looked at me like I had three heads, which isn't all that abnormal.  Hey - I've never seen this before.  And it's stupid.

Once I got the wife back on task, we went to find a shirt.  This task was almost impossible by itself because we'd have to find the men's section amid all the designer women's sections. When we finally located it, I had my choice of many brands in many colors.  I figured white was a good choice, business-wise.  We found it instantly but, of course, not in my size.  In fact, none of the shirts came in my size.  I had my choice between choking and too much shoulder (I chose the latter). Oh yeah, black socks (because, naturally, I only have white ones).

And now it was time for a tie.  I thought my head was going to explode.  There were more colors and designs than I've ever seen, none of which I liked.  Putting on a tie ranks just above mowing the lawn or going to the dentist on the list of things I love to do.  Finally something caught my eye: a Jerry Garcia tie.  A hideously expensive Jerry Garcia tie.  Now he was a guitar player, like me, but he's also dead, unlike me.  It just seemed weird.  And expensive.  Fortunately it was on sale.

At this point I could take it no longer.  I felt like I had multiple personalities: a child who kept saying, "I'M NOT GONNA WEAR THAT SHIT" and an adult who knew he had to but preferred to let the child vent.

As anyone who has been to a mall knows, all stores are required to have loud, annoying 'music' blaring throughout the store.  Look, I know I'm not going to like the alleged music but does it really have to be loud enough that we have to shout over it in order to ask a question?  I have amplifiers that can deafen a sales associate at fifty feet so I'm no stranger to volume. [Hey you kids - GET OFF MY LAWN!]  At this point my phone keeps telling me I have a voicemail.  Mind you there's no signal in the store, so how can it be telling me anything?  It was pretty insistent so I ran outside to check.  Apparently there is an even newer law stating that there must be loud music playing outside the store too (I kid you not). It was so bothersome that I had to go out into the parking lot to check voicemail.  Checking voicemail, I discovered I had none.  Ok, now the phone is just screwing with me.

As if ties weren't bad enough, it was time for Shoes.  Remember, I'm Mr. Sneaker.  Everything that isn't a sneaker is horrid, ugly or for people who love to pay a lot of money for many pairs of shoes. My wife was quite lovely in this regard, picking out two pairs of shoes in the entire section that she thought I wouldn't lose my dinner over (bless her).  So we took the shoe to the counter to ask for a pair in ten and a half, only there was nobody at the counter.  We waited a while and still there was nobody at the counter.  It's crap like this that makes me walk out.  How can they take my money if they don't man their counters? I suggested taking the display shoe and walking out the door, setting off the alarm. Then coming back in and asking for someone to help us in Shoes.  But I was trying to play nice, so I went and got someone from general checkout.  Not only was the place deviod of customers, it was devoid of employees.

New cashier comes back and informs me they don't have ten and a half but she brought out a ten and an eleven (I see where this is going). My choices were largely limited to tight shoes or loose shoes. I chose loose.  I'd prefer to have chosen another store but my wife's back hurt and she wasn't long for the mall.

Cashier rings us up, we hand over the card and POOF - the entire machine grinds to an immediate halt.  Rather than rebooting, checking a manual or waiting, the young lady started pounding on the keyboard and the display.  If it wasn't completely foobed before, it was then.  Her eyes started rolling like a slot machine.  Finally another employee happened by and as she was explaining it was stuck, it became unstuck. When he moved back, it was stuck again.  It seemed to like him but unforunately not enough to complete our transaction.  Unbag and over to the main cashier.


INTERVIEW

I have gone through a number of phone interviews/screenings recently.  It seems to be a relatively new thing to weed out the riff-raff before calling people in for a personal interview.  This guy didn't want to talk to me on the phone; he wanted me to come right in.  Alrighty then, appointment set. Possibly with multiple interviewers.

It was obviously Time to Panic.  Remember, like my suit, I haven't had an interview in fifteen years either.  I'm no slouch jobwise but I don't interview (or test) well. Consulting some online resources, I read about the DO's and DON'Ts of interviewing.  Combining it with what I got from phone interviews, I made a cheat sheet of stuff I'd have to remember, phrased appropriately.  Since one cannot use a cheat sheet at an interview without looking like a total moron, I had to try to memorize everything.  This was not a good thing, as I have the attention span of a pregnant ant and the retention of a Yak.  The words kept running around the paper, like .. well... words do on paper.

So it's the morning of the interview and I'm still cramming.  Things are starting to get interesting around the house, as there are two hurried and agitated people occupying it.  I also discovered that one cannot wear a shirt from the package - it needs to be ironed (this is just too much change for one person).  Wife tore the house apart for an iron while I brought up the ironing board.  Up went the ironing board then down went the ironing board with a mighty CRASH; the holding upper thingie wasn't holding up.  After a quick visual mechanical inspection, I made a temporary repair with locking pliers.

The wife also turned up some spray starch (which quickly failed to spray or starch).  The atmosphere got more tense as the people got more agitated.  The poor dog kept being in the way, as if on purpose. Where's the tie? Over there where you left it.  Hang the shirt up and don't put it on til before you leave.
DID I JUST PAY FIFTY DOLLARS FOR A SHIRT?  No, you don't look gay in those shoes. Do I remember how to tie a tie?  I think I do.  Good lord, I'm choking.  And I'm melllting......

Out the door I went, accosted by my elderly neighbor (the sane one), who clapped in approval of my bozo attire.  I left myself an hour to get there early, as any more wouldn't be worth the daily drive to me (picky bastard for being unemployed, no?).  Here's a pro-tip: DO NOT USE MAPQUEST for anything, unless you just like the colors.  Especially do not use Mapquest for directions.  You simply cannot turn right where there is NO ROAD.  Really.  I finally got to the address, which looked suspiciously like a private home, not a business building.  Giving up, I got out the GPS, which got me where Mapquest couldn't, with fifteen minutes to spare.

I sat in the lobby, cramming for the exam, checklist on my phone. I couldn't help but notice the amount of very attractive women passing by at regular intervals.  This company obviously hires wisely, as opposed to the last one, which was so severely lacking that attractive people would occasionally picket the place and demand that they hire at least one or two of them.

I met my contact and went to a room.  I'm shaking like a leaf and sweating like a person who is very nervous. Even with no caffeine, I noticed my foot tapping.  I read that in interviews, you DON'T tap your foot.  Then I started to swing the chair left and right a tiny amount, which you should also not do.  So I had to hold myself still, except for the shaking, and nod appropriately at the nice man interviewing me.

The strangest thing happened... he completely failed to ask me about myself. He did not ask me about my triumphs and failures.  What I do to blow off steam.  If I beat the wife or the dog.  Nothing.  He simply asked me how I'd go about doing the job.  He didn't even ask me if I were a tree, what kind I'd be.  There was no firing squad of interviewers. I didn't even spill my water on myself (because I put it on the floor, knowing what would happen if I tried).  He thanked me repeatedly for coming by, then asked about my availability to start.

So that's all until I hear from the recruiter.

The Unemployment Follies (#2)

So, as you might have guessed, I remain without job.  I could go ahead and suggest that I'm only doing this to provide my readers with more of what they expect from this blog (whatever that is) but I'll cop to simply continuing to be without employment (temporarily).  Ok, it's only been two weeks or so but I'm an impatient little (&$#er.

As I mentioned, Unemployment Compensation comes in at roughly half of what I was making, resulting in a few small changes.  The lavish parties, complete with drugs and loose women, have had to stop. Now it's just allergy meds and the wife.  No more buying stuff because it's on sale. I know Guitar Center is having a sale too and I can get a bigger discount if I buy two guitars.  Something tells me this logic isn't going to fly with the Shoe Buying Person.


QUANTUM COCKERS

We've even had to cut down on the amount of cat food the dog gets. This is what really hurt.

The last time I left the house, I came back to discover that the dog hadn't eaten or drank anything. We started to wonder if he was like Schroedinger's Dog, wherein he stopped existing when we weren't there to observe him.  We devised all sorts of clever scientific tests to answer the question but in the end, we couldn't come up with anything that would prove the case once and for all.

Not to worry.  Marshall, as usual, came to our rescue.  When we got home, this is what we found:

He had gotten into the recyclables, spreading them out nicely across the floor.  There's our PROOF that he still exists when we're not there to observe him.  BUT WAIT!!!  He not only spread the recyclables out, he bloody sorted them.  Most of what you see is soda cans.  He separated the soda cans (in the kitchen) from the cat food cans (in the dining room).  Each cat food can was lovingly placed in the next room and licked clean of any miniscule bits of cat food that might remain after rinsing them out.

I think we should get him a job in recycling and he can support us for once.


MORE JOB STUFF

So there has been another great rush of recruiter contacts this past week.  More jobs in Ohio, Wisconsin and across the state from me.  One genius saw my resume and wanted to know if I wanted a job in the exciting field of insurance sales.  I put my own resume together and can assure you that the words insurance and sales do not appear ONCE.  Are they truly that desperate?  Do they get paid for each email sent out?

Some of the Job Nonsense is caused by 'someone' putting out the wrong or incomplete job description. I applied for a network security job that turned out to be helpdesk; installing and supporting programs and being on call to answer users' questions and running the phones.  Ummmmm... no.  I didn't work my butt off in security so I could get a job placating end users who can't grok rebooting their machines, as well as making sure they're plugged in (no offense to the great and tolerant people who do this).

The next job someone sent me wasn't for security at all; it was for a high level engineering job.  Also no.  I would hate to repeat what someone told me once about recruiters: some of these folks can't get a job selling used cars (not all of them, of course).

Many have asked me about consulting.  Well, since I hit the FULL TIME button on all the applications, I dare you to take a stab at my answer.

Perhaps I should consider that insurance sales gig after all.

Quite frankly, I'm not sure I could make it to a job interview anyway.  As I was driving down the street, two out of three lanes had been blocked off by those nice men in their day-glo green t-shirts.  It seems that the local authorities released some cash for a Neighborhood Improvement Project.  Since our area didn't get hit as badly this winter with potholes, the local government decided to heed the loud cry of the area for parity and take some time to install potholes and a few new trenches in the road.  I don't know about you but I feel better about the hood now.

I will also have to allow a lot more time to get to an interview due to my unique ability to make any traffic light turn red, simply by approaching it.  My wife looked at me in great surprise at a light, informing me that she always makes this light (except when I'm in the car).  As if that weren't enough, when I hit the aforementioned hole-installing project, the guy holding the SLOW sign immediately turned it around to STOP.  Some people would see this as a curse.  Thus far I'm choosing to see it as amusing (or not see it at all).


NEIGHBORS

My dear neighbor (the good one) wanted to know if the house was going up for sheriff's sale (bless his pointy little head).

My other dear neighbor (the 437 year old crazy demon from Uranus) bitched my wife out because some trees were hanging over the fence and all she ever does is sit on the steps and smoke cigarettes and why doesn't she ever clean anything.. yet shooting a neighbor is still illegal.  It's a good thing the Crazy Lady is terrified of me... I'd unleash a verbal barrage that would blast her back into her cave before I even noticed what was coming out of my mouth.  It would fail, though, as everything else has, because she's crazy AND mostly deaf.

I finally realized what the best (legal) revenge is: keep the place in disarray.  She has nothing better to do than look at our property and seethe because it's not up to her standards.  So I'll make sure to keep it that way, while still adhering to the letter of the law.

The Unemployment Follies

So, as I mentioned, I got laid off about two weeks ago.  It wasn't that I didn't see it coming, it was more like I didn't see it coming that day.

Now that things have semi-stabilized, I figured I need to get back to the premise of this blog; that is, your gain from my pain.  Along those lines, I'm going to start noting Random Shit<tm> from life while I'm unemployed. When I get re-employed, I'll switch back to a different set of Random Shit<tm>.

DAY ONE

Not being completely without sense, I filed for Unemployment Compensation immediately.  The last time I filed, about thirteen years ago, it was primarily phone-based.  These days, it can all be done online.  This is a great thing for me, as you know of my great love for my fellow man (especially those fellows that work in city or state jobs).

I have to hand it to Pennsylvania - they did a great job of making the entire process quick and painless. Some would say that they haven't yet funged up the entire quick and painless process of signing up for unemployment. They told me I'd receive paperwork within ten to twelve business days.  Several days later, my paperwork arrived (not that paperwork).  Most impressive, PA.

My nephew assured my wife that total compensation came to 60-80% of normal income.  Fortunately I was approved immediately.  My nephew turned out to only be off by ten percent, in that it is much closer to fifty percent of my regular income.  My wife figured this out quickly (she's the brains and the beauty of this outfit, begging the question of what I'm doing here in the first place) and got a worried look on her face, as we weren't exactly doing too well when I was employed.

As I've mentioned,  I have interesting timing.  This time, however, life had interesting timing.  The wife's uncle was in hospice, dying from cancer.  The combination of a terminal uncle and an unemployed spousal unit kind of set the pot boiling over its own lid.  By this I mean that she went on a little internal vacation, as in checking out for a bit.

My wife's first exclamation after discovering my new and improved employment status was that it was about time I left and that it would be good to have me home for a while.  Oddly enough, yesterday was the first full day we spent together

So yeah, I'm officially on the unemployment rolls of PA.  They apparently try to discourage potential recipients of unemployment by sending them several envelopes with various colored papers, in various languages.  I think they're weeding some portion of us out.  There were so many papers that it became overwhelming.  Perhaps they were thinking survival of the fittest, as in the ones able to navigate the morass of paperwork and procedure were going to receive any compensation.

DAY TWO

This was resume day.  It was time to fine-tune the resume and start shooting it out to the right places. Or at very least, the online job boards.

A resume is where you write fine prose about your past employment, duties and accomplishments, making sure to embellish in every category possible.  Downright lying is apparently encouraged in some circles.  If you performed some task in some department, tell them you were the manager of that department... it was close.  If you did something once, make it an important full time job skill.  Invent all sorts of higher education that can't be verified.  Throw in an actual certification or two.  Vastly inflate your salary. Have your friends cover for you.  Make a lot of connections and annoy a lot of connections on LinkedIn and various other forms of evil that is social media.

Now let's talk facts: I have been out of the job-searching market for thirteen years or so. It wasn't so much updating the resume as writing one.  So no resume, no job-hunting skills and no real idea how to proceed was the order of the day.  I got right to work, made the resume look semi-impressive and sent it off to large job boards like Monster and Dice.

Recently, at my recent job, I had a recent neighbor. It was interesting to watch him take phone calls, get frustrated and slam down the phone.  Recruiters were calling him all the time about jobs. He told me it was predictable and inevitable... there were a bunch of Indian recruiters who would call, mispronounce his name and offer him jobs in different states, areas of the country or the other side of the same state (a nine hour drive one-way).  It happened several times per week.  I took to mispronouncing his name too, just to annoy him (that's the kind of guy I am).

Within two days of posting the resume, I had many emails from Indian recruiters for jobs in Chicago, Pittsburgh (a nine hour drive), San Francisco and many other job functions that weren't on my resume and that I wasn't willing to perform.  Boy, my ex-coworker wasn't kidding....

DAYS LATER

I'm not going to make stuff up; I am much more well-rested.  I get up early enough to scour job listings and respond to emails, phone calls and invent creative ways to look for jobs.  The custom-made job for me is around the corner but it hasn't exactly made itself known as yet (not for lack of trying).  All things in time.

My wife sure was happy to have me around.  So happy, in fact, that I got to go food shopping with her. This trip ranks just slightly above dentistry for me on the Things I Love to Do list.  One does not food shop with my wife; one follows silently, answering questions only when spoken to and never, NEVER wandering off or getting out of sight.  If one commits any of these transgressions, one will pay the price for throwing off her groove.  As silly (or painful) as it sounds, I have seen it a few times before. My wife normally does the shopping and does a great job of it.  The moment I come with her, she forgets where she's going and doesn't pick up items that were on her list in the first place.  Imagine having that kind of power.... I got to thinking that this is yet another reason people hate unemployment.  We like to go to work so we don't have to be home.

The wife shops at Costco (where all good things come from), which I don't get to see too often (fortunately).  They have weird hours and the parking lot is full at any time of the day or night.  Like many places in which I've shopped, they hire people to follow us around and see what we buy more than once.  When they figure it out, they immediately stop carrying them. I love these chocolate chip bars.  Because of this, they stopped carrying them. Now they have lemon bars.  Wife explained to me that lemon is the replacement for chocolate.  IN WHAT KIND OF UNIVERSE IS LEMON AN ACCEPTABLE SUBSTITUTE FOR CHOCOLATE?  I've seen people eat their own pocket lint before eating lemon bars.

Costco has extra wide aisles, so old people have to work much harder to put their cart in the exact center and block most of the pathway while they stand there, confused.  Mind you, old people succeed nonetheless.  The store also features people sampling random stuff at every other aisle.  When buying vitamins, neither of us were interested in cherry-flavored laxative samples, thank you very much.  One old sampling person asked if we'd like to try lemonade, just like Grandma used to make.  I was smarter than that - my grandmother never made lemonade.

Seven hundred dollars later, we were out of there.  Of course I kid... but I'd have no trouble getting the bill over seven hundred dollars, especially if I liked televisions large enough to take up an entire wall of my house.  I swear... that place has everything. Everything but suits.

Fcuk... SUITS!

SUITS?

Another thing I haven't done in thirteen years is wear a suit (I'm still post-traumatic about it).  The last suit got me the last job, damn near paying for itself.  Since it still fit, I figured I could wear it for interviews.  Well, even I am occasionally intelligent enough to question whether an ancient suit would look silly and ancient on me (as opposed to just plain stupid).  The general consensus was that it was New Suit Time. Have I mentioned how much I hate suits?  I'd rather mow the lawn and you know how much I hate mowing the lawn.

Costco had shirts, though.  The only problem there was that I had to know what my size was.  And again, in thirteen years, I had never thought about my shirt size or retained any of the numbers.  There were certainly a lot of numbers on the hideously colored dress shirts there but they weren't making any sense.  We figured we'd just get a shirt with a suit and be done with it.  And, heaven forbid, a tie.

Have I told you how much I hate ties?  In all this time, I haven't worn ties or dress shirts.  If there is a sad event like a funeral or wedding, I either don't show up or show up in my normal uniform (a clean t-shirt and jeans).  Because I spend so much time not showing up, when I do show up, everyone's so happy to see me that no one notices I'm wearing sneakers.  It's an interesting life.

Out of nine million things my wife has purchased over the years, she remembered one: the tiny little sewing kit that contained a tape measure.  She located the sewing kit, which was a minor miracle in itself, and proceeded to try to measure me.  This was made impossible by the fact that she had no idea how to measure.  While she called her mother for advice, I had looked it up on the internet, where all good things come from.

Since that was so much fun, I looked up how to measure someone for a suit.  Since neither of us had much higher education, it took quite a while, a straight edge, two rulers and some KY Jelly to finally ascertain my suit size.  Then it was time for the pants.  Do you know there is a seat measurement? They should have put it in plain language: ass size.  I kept asking my wife if she was Mr. Humphries taking an inside leg [Are You Being Served?].

Apparently I have the neck of a football player, the shoulders of a weight lifter and the lower torso of someone who was just over the required height for a dwarf.

The only thing worse than buying a suit is wearing a suit.  I wanted this circus done.  But the other thing worse than buying a suit is having it altered.  Some people, meaning me, don't really care if the suit fits and the pants are eight inches too long.  Apparently I'm not the only one: stores only sell suits in my size that come with pants better suited to a guy who consumes a case of beer in one sitting, several times a week.

Another ex-coworker was talking about going to some outlets and seeing really cheap suits... you know... like three hundred dollars.  At this point, my eyeballs bounced off the back of my skull and I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't have to buy a suit.  As it turned out, my lucky stars were more like meteors, plummeting to earth.  Or recent cruise ships, plummeting to the bottom of the ocean.

Three hundred dollars is rather a lot for an unemployed guy.  It's too much for an employed guy too. That's a lot of t-shirts, folks.  At this point we remembered that all good things come from the internet, so we set about searching for them.  The suits were a mix of cheap and Oh My God.  The only uniformity was that they were ugly.  Some were uglier than others.  Some looked like they'd be better suited (get it?) for waiters.  Some for gangsters.  Some for golfers. The sharkskin purple ones, well, I have no idea who they were for.  When we finally found an acceptable price on an ugly black straightjacket.. uh... suit, we discovered that it would take up to ten business days to arrive.  I told her this was a sign that I was not supposed to purchase a suit.  She refused to take that for an answer, so we'll be shopping locally soon.

So you can't wear sneakers and jeans to an interview?  I figure it shows individuality and creativity.  You mean nobody wants individuality and creativity?  Oh.

YOU TELL THEM

On the way out the door, my wife greets the neighbor across the street.  I'm not exactly busting out with social grace but I generally manage a hi, hello or at least a grunt.  Immediately after hello, the wife starts telling the neighbor about my being laid off.

I stood there, partially humiliated, wondering what to do.  Never being short for words, I waited for my wife to finish, then blurted out, "And my genitals are too small also."

I realize the benefits of telling people... maybe someone knows someone who's looking for someone. But telling the mailman and the cashier at Wawa probably isn't going to do much for me, other than affording me another opportunity to tell people about my genitals.  As it turns out, many people now know about my genitals.


I'll continue this as things continue to happen.  Try not to become unemployed.

What the Hell Just Happened?

It's a recent Saturday, on which I've scheduled my exam for the Security+ certificate. For those of you who don't know, Security+ is a certification that one knows Important Stuff<tm> in the IT security realm. It mostly certifies that you test well.  Employers like certifications but I have something better; years of IT experience, which counts for something.  In addition to certifications, I don't have a college degree (because I couldn't pass the drinking exams to get into college).

If you've never tried to get a certification before, it's a very interesting (read: tedious) process. First you have to figure out who gives the test. Then at what location. Then if you have the proper identification (drivers license, something else with your signature and the proper arrangement of blood vessels in your retina).  All of this pales in comparison with Paying for It.  Yes, folks, this cert was going to cost me three hundred dollars, pass or fail.  And this is the cheap cert.

In addition to the rigamarole surrounding signing up, you have an actual Code of Conduct, which largely states that you'll show up, not blow raspberries at other test-takers or make fart noises with your underarm.  Oh yeah, you have to show up at least fifteen minutes early for the test.

For locations, I had the choice of a Korean church and an airport.  Hmmm.... this was going to be tough.  Let's see, a church (I don't go into churches because I always set off the Anti-Christ Detector) or an airport (the classic scenario of the guy with A.D.D. trying to take a test at an airport with planes taking off and landing).  Perhaps because I like a challenge, I chose the airport.  Have I mentioned that I haven't taken a test since.... well... let's call it the eighties.

Stay with me here.... it was my wife's birthday so I told her I'd be getting the certification as a small present.  Off we went, way too early, to the airport.  It was a small airport, which I suppose was a good thing and we watched a few planes land and take off.  It was kind of a nice morning, watching planes. One landed with the insignia of another country on it.  Turns out it belonged to a doctor, who had two.

So it was getting kind of late and the doors were locked.  Another poor slob showed up and we waited together for our test.  Our fifteen minute window came and went.  Then our test time came and went.  We stared quizzically at each other.

Unfortunately,  the test-giver apparently did not have to show up fifteen minutes early.  Or at all.  We didn't entirely know what to do so we did what came naturally; we sat there.  It quickly became an emergency, as my wife was out of coffee (do not pass Dunkin Donuts coffee, do not collect $200).

All of the sudden, we heard a thundering sound.  Looking toward the airfield, we saw nothing.  Then we turned to the parking lot and a humongous vehicle approached, with all the thunder of a 747, and squealed mightily into a parking spot.  If this was Test Guy, he sure knew how to make an entrance. He very slowly got out of the leviathan and it became obvious he had a small problem with one of his legs. I loved that on the back of the truck was a bumper sticker that said, "Don't you feel silly about your Obama sticker now?"

And he was Test Guy.

He let us in, apologized, then started explaining why he was late, what kind of trouble he was having with his leg, which vertebrae were out in his back, how long he has suffered, how he got that way and that one nostril was physically larger than the other.  Not to mention how much of a dick his boss was.

I know this was going to be an interesting test experience.

We all gave up our first-born and blood vessels and marched quietly into the test area.  The test area was replete with some magnificent wood paneling, reminiscent of the 1970's.  In fact, the entire shack looked like my parents' house in 1970.  But it had cable.

There were about six test stations.  The first thing I noticed, superior Security Dood that I am, was that the computers were all running Windows XP.  I decided the better of explaining why this was not a good idea and Test Guy finished logging in.  The other guy taking a test was taking a financial test, which prompted a question from Test Guy about what we should do when the economic system falls in on itself.  The answer, of course, was guns and precious metals (I knew that, securing myself a friend for life).  Unfortunately, finance test-taker just stood there, dumbfounded.

So the test started and informed me I had some ridiculously large amount of time to complete it.  I allowed myself a virtual sneer, as I blew through all of my practice tests in minutes.  In fact, I took practice tests until my eyeballs fell out and threatened to phone the Eyeball Abuse Agency.  There was no way I was not going to pass that test.

Off I went to the first question.  Oddly enough, it was a strange question, both in subject matter and in the fact that I had to 'wire' and complete a wireless system for maximum security.  Also oddly was the fact that neither of these appeared in my study materials.  It was all multiple-choice.

The second question surprised me by also being something that didn't appear in my studies.  It was about this time that I started getting nervous.  Perhaps, I thought, it was just these two questions and I could blast through the other ones quickly.

Nope.

Nervous was the order of the day.  As it turned out, very few, if any of the questions were in my study materials.  It appeared as if they had given me the wrong test (but I was hesitant to argue with Test Guy) and I figured I would see the test through and deal with the results later.

My many years in IT served me well, as there were things on the test of which I've never heard, as well as things I could answer.

I finished nervously but firm.  The test asked me if I wanted to review any of my answers.  Hell no - if I didn't have any idea the first time, what would be the point of proving that I didn't know it a second time?

I have to admit how difficult it was not to make fart noises with my underarms on the way out of the test area.  I may be an experienced IT guy but we're all still children when it comes to farts.

Test guy was very difficult to find.  I looked everywhere, including behind the paneling, yet he was not there.  Spotting an open door, I launched myself through it.  I wound up in a plane hangar and there was Test Guy.   In an accurate metaphor for the entire experience, he was smoking a cigarette under the NO SMOKING sign whilst examining a fire extinguisher for compliance.  I desperately wanted to take a picture but didn't think it was a good time.

I told him that the stuff on the test was not the stuff I studied.  He laughed and told me that nine out of ten test-takers said the same thing to him.

Alrighty then.

Test Guy performed whatever magic necessary to print out forms, make some copies, then complain about the government.  I watched the ancient printer eat up some paper and my heart sank.  Finally he gave me my results.  I wished him the best of health and left.

Wife was sitting there, watching planes and smoking like a chimney.  I was amazed that the airport didn't ask her to stop smoking, as she was violating local pollution ordinances. I walked out with lowered head and slow gait.  She looked concerned.  She asked.  I didn't meet her gaze but handed her the results.

Passing was 750 out of 900.  I got an 810.  I can now refer to myself as leftystrat, Sec+. I couldn't believe it and was numb.  IT Dood still has it after all these years!  Wife screamed and admitted she thought I blew it when she saw me.

I am such a total bastard.


Speaking of people who aren't bastards, Test Guy went outside for a ciggie and started talking to my wife about pain.  Wife gave him her Complete Course on pain control and some valuable tips.  I felt great that she reached out to him and hopefully he took some of it home with him.  It was a good day all around.

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Since it was the wife's birthday, I had a short (and cheap) ride planned.  She knew not where; I just gave her directions.

Halfway there, I got a call from a coworker.  There was a serious problem with one of the systems and it needed to be shut down.  Many calls and emails later, I was no longer needed (thankfully).  I was not relishing having to work on my wife's birthday, although I would have.  We work 24/7/365 on our team. Gotta keep the railways moving.

As we got closer, I had to find ways to block signs advertising our destination.  This consisted of physicallly putting myself between her (she drove) and the signs, as well as distracting her with conversation.  Somehow I succeded.

As we pulled off at the exit and came around the corner, there was much screaming.  There on the left was a Waffle House.

Before you laugh hysterically at me and call me names (other than the normal ones), I beg your indulgence.  We tend to hit a hamfest (electronics flea market for radio) in Maryland a few times per year.  On the way down are three Waffle Houses.  In Philthydelphia, there are no Waffle Houses.  We discovered Waffle House on a trip to Arizona, so it has sentimental value.  It takes about three hours to make it to Waffle House in Maryland.

I went online and discovered a Waffle House about ninety minutes away, which is where I took her.  She was incredibly impressed at my efforts at personalizing her gift. The internal children were screaming WAFFLE HOUSE, WAFFLE HOUSE and everyone was excited.  They love to watch the hustle and bustle of Waffle House operations.

Waffle House has some famous hash browns that you can order with several toppings.  I order ham, onions and cheese but Waffle House has a different designation for this, along the lines of slashed, hashed and mashed (which, coincidentally, is how I like my women).

As things go in large chains, the food was absolutely predictable, whether or not you like it.

Our waitress was a really nice older lady.  The folks sitting next to us, however, were from New Yawk and just a little weird, in that old, retired person way.  Mrs. New Yawk had some meds to take, which started the couple and the waitress talking about people in their families who had died recently from heart attacks.

You're probably wondering how it is that I come upon this Neat Shit every time I leave the house. I can't even begin to explain it to you, largely as I don't understand it myself.  Let it just be my pain and your joy.

Mrs. Yawk was going on about how her relative died at fawty, bless him.  Waitress talked about her uncle, who died at sixty-six; way too young, bless him.  Husband complained that wife spent all of the money, as one would expect.

At this point I can't decide whether to show them my pre-digested breakfast or just laugh.  I decided on the latter, with special consideration as to how I was going to describe it on the blog.  These are the things I do for you, loyal readers.

Eventually the waitress got the Yawkers out of their seats and lavished us with her attention.  As it turned out, there wasn't a single word spoken about death, heart attacks or industrial food.  She was polite, gracious and one of the best waitresses we've ever had.  We tipped generously, as anyone should for this level of service.

People are different outside of Philthydelphia.  On the way out, after our gourmet meal, we noticed a lady starting at us.  Getting into the car, she ran after us and asked if the wife lost a ring.  She figured it was the wife, as the ring was Indian and the wife has rather a large collection of it on her person at all times (she's a lot of fun at airport checkpoints).  I was dumbfounded.

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So it was a beautiful Saturday.  And my timing has to be applauded: when I went to work on Monday, I got laid off.

Summertime

So it's summer, at least in the hot, humid tundra of the Philly area.  And since it's summer, everyone's fancy turns to line dancing.

Yes, line dancing.

How do I know?  Because I got an email at work, stating that we could welcome summer with some line dancing.

Don't look at me that way..... doesn't your company welcome summer with line dancing?  What kind of company do you work for?  Doesn't your Chief Line Dancing Officer send the company missives about line dancing in summer? Winter? Weekly?

The email goes on to say that Josh Weinstein was coming in to teach us all line dancing in two days.  Now how can anyone possibly prepare themself for glory that is line dancing in only two days?  It's simply not fair and way beyond expectations.  And it's killing me because I already took that day off.  Had I known about summer and line dancing, I would never have taken that day off, not to mention using the entire previous week to properly prepare myself for the Big Event.

Summarizing thus far, we have a black Chief Line Dancing Officer informing us that the Jewish line dancing instructor will be coming by to teach some line dancing to the entire corporation (brave enough to attend).

Did I mention that this Great Happening will be Happening during working hours?

You see, I work in the Twilight Zone, where the duck pond meets the yellow brick road.  And I am not making any of this up. Only the names were changed to avoid unnecessary embarrassment, not to mention wanton adulation.

Searching your vast database of line dancing (and we all have at one time or another), how many black people do you recall seeing?  And how many Jews do you remember teaching?  If you think about it, how many of us feel that Jews should be teaching anything at all that requires rhythm?

Before you start sending me Nastygrams<tm> about anti-semitism, I speak from experience.  Way back when I was young and full of misplaced enthusiasm, I owned a recording studio.  My singer had a bunch of his (Jewish) friends over to clap along with a song we were recording.  It looked like a very bad cartoon, with us having to instruct the friends to clap ON the beat, as opposed to AROUND the beat, NEAR the beat and mostly, AROUND THE CORNER from the beat.  As much as we wanted to send his friends around the corner, we all tried diligently.  And we failed diligently.  There was less rhythm ability in this crowd than Catholic priests who don't like little boys.  Stereotypes have to come from somewhere, you know.

So at least we have that going for us.

I'm trying to decide if there's any way I can jettison my out-of-town company and somehow get to work for this very important line dancing event.  I guess if I were smart (a pretty far walk), I would bring the out-of-towners to the very important line dancing event.  After all, they're from the South, which we all know is Line Dancing Central.  Not only don't they have Jewish instructors, they don't have Jews.  As Woody Allen said, 'I asked where the Jews hang out. They pointed to a tree.'

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Neato Job Tips #1:  When you're on a webinar with your coworker and their screen is being shared with a salesperson, do not send them obscene instant messages or messages making fun of the salesperson.  They will show up on the screen and everybody can read them.

Don't ask me how I know.

The Neighbor and World War Four

What a lovely day.  Not a sun in the sky, not a chance of sun for days and there's this old dude in the parking lot, loading animals into a big boat.  Don't ask me - I just report stuff.

I got a call at work a few days back from the wife.  This in itself is not odd; my wife only calls when it's important (or when it's twenty minutes past the last time she called).  It turns out this was nearly significant, though.  We got another visit from those nice folks from the township.

For those not following along, the last visit from the township was due to an anonymous complaint about our front yard being a mess.

Now when they say anonymous, they mean The Crazy Lady next door.  Crazy Lady is four-hundred thirty seven years old and steadfastly refuses to die.  Whether it's cancer or repeated replacement body parts, she simply stares it down and will not succumb.  One time she fell off her broom and broke her hip.  It was replaced within three days and she was worse than new.

The Crazy Lady seems to have two hobbies: gardening and calling the township on us.  It must be nice to have that kind of focus.  One time she claimed our bees bit her.

What makes things doubly confusing is that Crazy Lady has two personalities - Ok and Completely F*ing Nuts.  She'll leave fresh tomatoes from her garden on our steps, then call the township because we haven't raked the leaves to her specifications.

So Visit Number One from the township involved the messy front yard.  The nice fellow from the township seemed somewhat confused, as there was no mess in the front yard.  I explained The Crazy Lady to him and he got the picture straight away.  He shared an anectote of his own with me: somebody (guess who?) called the township because another neighbor had too many birdhouses on their property.  I suspect she has a red phone in her cave that dials the township and nowhere else.

Which brings us to Visit Number Two from our friends at the township.  This complaint was from yet another anonymous complainant (guess who?) about standing water in our yard.

Now I don't want y'all to think I just randomly blame people for stuff without any proof or that I think I'm psychic. The small bit of evidence that holds this theory together had something to do with a voicemail my wife received from The Crazy Lady, complaining about standing water.

Donning my Sherlock Holmes hat, Mrs. Watson and I connected the dots.

The fellow from the township and my wife were both a little confused, until she escorted him to the back yard to find the culprit: the standing water was the dog's little plastic pool, which gets refilled every other day so it doesn't turn green.

Everyone (except The Crazy Lady) was in agreement that there was no standing water on the premesis. When we mentioned that we knew who made the complaint, he said the call was anonymous and he couldn't tell us. Uh-huh.

Our grass, however, turned out to be a problem.  Why?  Because it was a little tall.  Not a foot tall, mind you, but tall.

How tall?  Nobody knows.  But the nice man from the township assured her that they had standards, even though he didn't bother to tell her what they were.  I suggested we paint a ruler on the inside of the fence, so we would always know how tall the grass was.  If the township said the grass can't be any taller than six inches, I'd adjust the mower to cut it down to five inches, then wait til it hit six inches again to cut it.  We could have them come out to measure it on a bi-weekly basis.

You may have detected that I have a problem with the township and you'd be right if you said that.  First of all, the weather here has basically two states: rainy and sunny.  It's rainy at least five days per week (in fact, we may be the new rainforest) and sunny rarely.  How anyone can mow with this disgusting display of wet weather is beyond me.  And did I mention that mowing ranks slightly above dental work on my preferred list of things to do?

The guy from the township claimed to understand all about priorities (my working three jobs and my wife physically unable to push the mower).  I get the impression he didn't understand priorities at all, as he said he'd be back to check.

I wonder if he'll bring a ruler or if his retina is calibrated in inches.